Passion is not hot; it is cold. In the languorous summer heat I sit caressing my limbs with lotion as bright bikinis run past and dive into the water. Sunglasses reflect the light but not the heat; I take a sip of iced tea and try holding a book above my head to block the sun's glare. My arm quickly tires. I put down the book, close my eyes and inhale the chlorinated odors of the swimming pool. My consciousness swims in a bright orange darkness and relaxes to swimming pool sounds: bouncy diving boards, screaming children and swimsuits dripping on the way to towels. Sweaty moisture glazes my chest and drips into folded crevices of skin. I reach for the suntan lotion, but before I open it, footsteps run by and dive into the water, raining a giant splash upon me. I awake and spy the culprit – a short freckle-faced kid who by now was at the other side of the pool. I dry myself and see climbing out of the water a tall dark-skinned girl whose small teenage breasts jut unashamedly out of her water-shrunken bikini. She returns to her towel, dons sunglasses and walks to the water fountain while I stare at her spongy buttocks knocking against one another. Without embarrassment the girl pulls up the bottom half of her bathing suit, covering the pale strip of skin made accidentally visible. I turn over on my stomach and massage my back with lotion. Now a group of adolescents are jeering at another girl for not jumping into the water. "Come in," one boy yells. "It's not cold!" The others start splashing wildly at the girl, causing her to scoot a safe distance away. Eventually the teens forget about her, and the girl removes her T-shirt, glancing about to make sure no one was watching. She approaches the water and samples it with her toe. "It's cold," she says. Still wary of being splashed, she goes to the shallow water and descends the first step. Moments later she steps down to where the water reaches her upper thighs. She shivers and hops around with hands high in air, as if groping for a life preserver dangling from the sky. Adjusting to the temperature (but determined to keep her blonde hair dry), she descends to the bottom step, bringing the water level to her small bosom. But it is too much; she hastily retreats to the top step, watching the swimmers half-enviously. Go ahead, I think to myself, do it. But she just stands there, gliding her hands over the water. Then, with sudden bravery, she steps down, all the way down, to the bottom step, biting her lip as she endures waves of cold flowing about her. The only dry part remaining is her lovely blonde hair, still neatly combed behind her ears. But even that does not stay dry for long; with a single jerky bob, she disappears under the water, finally succumbing to the aquatic rape that was all the time inevitable. Immediately she shoots out of the water, breathing heavily, her hair tangled around her face like seaweed. I take a sip of iced tea, tilting the glass so the ice cubes can fall one by one into my mouth. But the melted cubes are melded together; they stay at the bottom of my glass until I give it a few hard shakes.

For years I've performed a ritual with every woman I've made love to. With Cynthia, as with the rest, I did it unthinkingly, almost religiously, while never sure of its meaning. Cynthia was the love of my life in senior year at Emory. She had stellar SAT scores ("Tests – they're so inconsequential!") and was captain of the school's fencing team ("Sometimes a foil is just a foil," she used to say). The first time I saw her, she was dueling an invisible opponent in the library parking lot, gracefully twirling her foil and lunging ahead like a crazed ballerina. A few weeks later, we were naked in bed, legs brushing idly against one another. Passion was three hours over – or was it about to begin? Kissing her lips lightly, I nudge her to lie on her stomach, which she does without opening her eyes. I want her; I savor her beauty as the tips of my fingers graze over her soft back. Cynthia sighs, and I rest my head against her shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of her respirations. Even in the dark I could see her lazy nipple, relaxed but alert to the possibility of arousal. Her eyes were closed: not asleep, but lulled into erotic repose. When she was like this, I would take out an ice cube – smuggled from the freezer – and bring it to the base of her spine. When she felt it, she would wriggle out of position and issue a panicky laugh. An instant later, I had already removed the ice cube and was guiding her head to the pillow. Her naked body lay before me, presenting an almost infinite surface for the ice cube to explore. Slowly, so slowly, I touch her ankle with the ice cube, holding her legs to keep her from pushing away. Again she laughs, and the ice cube inches up her thigh to the borders of her pubic hair. I stop, take the ice cube away and stare at the smiling face of the woman I adore. Cynthia giggles, bracing for the next icy touch; for 20 whole seconds I sit beside her, watching her tense expectation. Next, her elbow; the ice cube skates up and down her arm, leaving a cold trail of tears. "Eyes closed," I whisper, lifting the ice cube to the other side of her body, catching the drips with my hand to disguise my next move. The ice cube flits against her fidgety breasts, electrifying points of contact, inching towards her pubis, encircling it like an inward-moving spiral, while she lies there, absorbing these sensations with pleasurable impatience. As the ice cube begins its final descent – can I confess this? – I feel less like a giver of pleasure than a torturer, a man extracting confessions of pleasure to gain a vital piece of information. But even torturers can be artists; their brushstrokes are careful and controlled; their motions enhance the helpless yearnings of the human figure in all its beauty. The key to the ice cube was movement – staying too long in a single place would numb instead of excite; I had to keep it moving, making sure not to miss a square inch of skin. I brought the ice cube over her furry pubic jungle, providing not merely precipitation – she was already damp with anticipation – but a sudden frost. Her body recoils, and she warns with her hands not to remain long. But the ice cube remains, searing all sensation and wresting a hollow sigh from her lips. Finally, sensing victory (or was it defeat?), I lift the ice cube, (now a third of its original size) to her lips, which she accepts like a gumdrop. Looking into my eyes, Cynthia wraps her arms about me to offer a weary, grateful kiss. But instead of kissing me – and here's where Cynthia is different – she keeps the ice cube between her teeth and moves her mouth over my shoulders and chest. A cold tingle moves over my body as I try not to flinch. But that's what she wants, and that's what I do when she locates a tender patch on my side. She moves to my face and deposits the well-traveled but ever-diminishing ice cube into my mouth. The gesture catches me off-guard; it fills me with repulsion and excitement. Cynthia just grins. I bend over her lips to give the ice cube back. Her tongue accepts the gift but pushes it back to my mouth. Laughing, I try to kiss her, but Cynthia playfully pulls her head away. I hold her head so I can kiss her once again, pushing the ice cube back into her mouth. Cynthia accepts, and our tongues wrestle with each other, trying to present the other with the ice cube. Cynthia tickles my back, and in an instant, I let down my guard and allow her to push the ice cube into my mouth. Betrayed, I try spitting it out, but she covers my mouth with her icy cold hand. Unable to resist, unable to open my mouth, I feel Cynthia's lips move down my stomach and the ice cube underneath my tongue dissolving.

The original ebook used for this audio book is under the Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike License; this story comes from the 99 Erotic Notions fiction project by Hapax Legomenon, you can find it on the original website of this author:

http://www.ripemangotaketwo.com/

This work is based on 99 Erotic Notions by Hapax Legomenon, whose website is located at the above web address.

Through the magic of net lookups, I have ascertained your location. And sent you a gift. A limosine will drive you to the luxurious Arts Barcelona hotel, and the chaffeur will hand you a key to a room with a gigantic bed. On that bed sit three black men. They rise, bring you over and lay you down. One hands you a note; another gives you a kiss; and the third whispers, "tonight is your night for fantasies to become real."

At my request, the three men flew here from America to be with you (so the note explains). The men were handsome and strong; it took me a good two months to find the right ones. If they served you well this evening, they would be paid well. Persuading them to come to Barcelona was not easy. First, they thought it was a joke. Then, they insisted on a photograph, thinking there had to be something wrong with you. Elena does not permit photographs, I explained. Photos could only hint at a woman's beauty; they could not convey the thrill of your sexy presence, the naked curves, the tantalizing sighs. On the basis of nothing more than my words of admiration, the men agreed to the deal, and now they are here, ready to offer enjoyment.

The first of the three men, the tallest and most muscular, was an 18 year old named Wayne. He played basketball in high school and won a scholarship to play at college next year. Because of his star quality and humble manner, he was wildly popular at school. But the attention made him nervous. He was awkward around the multitude of girls who thronged around him at games or parties. The reason was sex. He craved it, but was afraid to show his desire to any girl for fear of scaring her off. His penis was large, and when he masturbated, he felt so out of control that no girl would like him after he fucked her. Although most girls at his school were black (and pretty), in fact he desired small white women the most (and was ashamed to admit it). They were cute and agreeable and always a little afraid of him. Wayne agreed to my proposition without hesitating. It was an opportunity to have sex (he was still a virgin) with a white woman (something he'd always dreamt about) who lived in Europe (far away from school friends and the rumor mill). Because you already had experience, he guessed that you could instruct him about how to satisfy a woman. And how to be passionate without being a beast. Truthfully, he just wanted to bury his nose into your sex, wrap his black body around you and start thrusting away. But he didn't want to offend. If you wanted him to stop or slow down, he would obey; he wanted you to like him (even though you were just a European stranger). He wanted to prove that he could satisfy a woman without losing control or ejaculating prematurely. He sat on the bed, covering his sexual organs with his hands to hide his erection (the first in the group to have one); he worried about how you would react. He held your hand, kissed you quietly and awkwardly, unsure of how to start or convince you to disrobe.

Fortunately, the second black man, Michael was an expert at such things. Michael curled you over and slid your blouse off, then in a quick snap undid your bra. It was like magic. Michael had lots of experience with these situations; he must have seduced dozens of women in his life, maybe even a hundred. Michael honestly believed that no woman could resist him, least of all you. He liked to laugh and make woman laugh. With his shiny bald head and strong broad shoulders, he had a charming personality – and used it to his advantage. When he saw you lying in an awkward position on the bed, he cheerfully teased your body with his fingers. He knew how to move you (or any women) into any position. He had worked five years as a massage therapist and handled many woman, old and young, fat and skinny, beautiful and ugly. Although he made love only to the most beautiful women (such as you), he knew the ways they responded, the ways they liked to be touched, the ways they experienced passion. He had read every how-to manual on how to make love to women and had even written a book, 300 Secret Techniques of Cunnilingus (which was still a bestseller in some countries). He could proudly say that every woman he had made love to had achieved orgasms frequently (although sometimes more than one session was required). Only once was he prepared to declare failure. The 35 year old woman was a sexually frustrated nymphomaniac who never had an orgasm, either alone or with a partner. He tried unsuccessfully for an hour to pleasure her using all 300 techniques (and even a dozen intended for later editions of the book). They met the next day to try again. He changed tactics by giving her various massages, a sensuous bath, a nice walk in the forest, a swim in the nude on the beach, a romantic film, and finally an evening alone with their bodies. When he touched her again, she came in no time at all, and amazingly in 10 minutes she came again, and by midafternoon of the next day, he had helped her experience 17 orgasms, each more powerful than the previous (he himself had experienced 4). By the end, both of them were sweaty and sore; their limbs and bodies had melted so completely into one another that he no longer was certain where his body ended and hers began. At the end, she lay next to him, drained, exhausted and utterly satisfied; she proposed marriage to him on the spot, and when he politely refused, she pleaded, begged and cried with him for over an hour. A week later, a Jaguar convertible arrived on his driveway as a gift; she later admitted that she borrowed a lot of money to pay for it, but continues to make the monthly car payments with enthusiasm.

As he bent closer to you and stroked your arms and back, he was mentally calculating which of the 300 cunnilingus techniques would be most effective and which kind of thrust he would perform. He brought you close to his naked chest, marveling at how responsive your breasts were to even the slightest touch, and realizing how good this was going to be. Not just good... excellent! He kissed your cheeks, and nuzzled into your neck while wrapping his arms around you and noticing by the sound of your Mmmmm's where and how you liked to be touched. He held you like a bear, and you could feel his warm penis – only somewhat erect and very very soft – against the lower part of your back, aching for your touch and the chance to enter your small moist pocket. Your body reactions were unusual and surprising; he was discovering new things, new feminine reactions. Good material for his next book.

The third black man, Jack, stared at you with steely eyes. He owned an engineering firm and frequently made business trips to other countries. He was accustomed to the finer things in life; he obtained whatever he desired and spent lots of money on whims. Whenever he visited a new country he made it a point to sample the women. His secret was simple: give undivided attention to the object of his lust, whether she was a waitress, a person on the subway or a business client. Find an excuse to be alone with her, make small talk for a few minutes and then ask her out. 60% of the woman just laughed at him. 35% politely took his number, but never called. But 5% actually called him back; this 5% was more than enough to keep him busy. He thought nothing of asking out pretty 18 or 19 year olds or even women with husbands or boyfriends. The younger girls were easier to catch (and more innocent); the married women were more wild when they succumbed. On weeks where he made no love connections, he relied on prostitutes and past flings to keep him happy. For a man who cared so little about women, who viewed them as mere toys for his pleasure or mere mouths for swallowing his sperm, he rarely had a lonely evening.

After taking a woman out for drinks or dinner, he would kiss or touch her gently for the rest of the date until the girl felt comfortable enough to return to his apartment. Once inside, the kisses became more intense, and he rapidly took off his clothes, letting her feel his hairy black chest against her soft baby-white skin. If the girl complained, he would apologize (how easy apologies were!) and suggest five more minutes of passion before the evening's end. The girl usually agreed, leaving him five minutes to explore her vulnerabilities and find a position permitting maximum control. After a while, she would tap him on the shoulder and announce that the five minutes were up, to which he would sneer, "well, you're enjoying it!" holding her firm while ignoring her resistance, taking his pleasures until it finally dawned on her that he wouldn't release her until he had completely satisfied himself.

It was a kind of rape, and the woman sometimes fought tears as he lay beside her, kissing her soft back. He usually ignored her sobs unless she cried too loudly or tried to leave. In a tender voice, he would hold her naked body and ask what was the matter. His strategy was to apologize profusely for treating her so roughly, explaining that when he made love, he lost control to animal instincts and couldn't help himself. He'd say how happy and grateful he was just to be close to her; stroking her hair and comforting her tentatively, asking for forgiveness. Bullshit like that. Most of the time the woman would relent, and her body would eventually relax at his touch, leaving him to bask in the glow of feminine forgiveness. Often, as long as he didn't overdo it, he could persuade her to give him a blowjob later.

Throughout the night, the women he seduced experienced a variety of emotions: first, outrage at being taken so forcefully, then passive acceptance at the event's inevitability, then an admission that even in this passive state she could feel pleasure, then a desire to tame his angry passions with feminine embraces, and finally a desire to match his naked selfishness with her own, refusing to let go until she could guide his thrusts and prevent him from climaxing before she did. The women he slept with never loved him; many despised him and resented his indifference to a woman's sexual or emotional needs. His sexual aggressions forced a woman to learn active resistance and even to demand her own right to pleasure. The only way for her to overcome victimization was to lose inhibitions and pursue physical pleasures just as ruthlessly as he did. And when she found orgasms with him, what made him happiest was knowing she acheived them totally without his help.

Jack examined your body as the two other men helped to remove your clothes. He laughed. So he was being paid to be this lovely woman's sexual slave! In no time at all the servant would subdue the mistress. Yes, he admitted, you were a lovely sexual specimen, certainly one of Europe's finest; he couldn't wait to have you. But by the end of the evening (he thought), you would be just another sexual adventure, just another surrendering woman who received his sperm. He laughed and reached toward your pussy, caressing what would soon be his.

As the men started their caresses, you reread my note which explains the evening's details. Everything was paid for, and you would be free to do what you wished. The room was equipped with a giant bathtub, handcuffs and all sorts of sex toys and prophylactics. The three men would receive $5000 for serving you well. If any of them displeased you for even the smallest reason, they would be sent home immediately without reimbursement.

At the same time (explained the letter), your Spanish boyfriend was being escorted into a hotel room at the other side of town and kept company by two celebrity models. Giggling, they would put him in handcuffs, act out a little lesbian show and offer sexual treats. Or (if you prefer), he could receive front row seats to a football match and a VIP pass to meet the players afterwards. Either way, he will be busy all night and even feeling guilty for not telling you about his whereabouts. Everything according to plan.

In addition, the letter explained a prize which all three men were competing for, and you would award. For tonight, these three men would serve you, but at the end of the evening, you could invite one (and only one) for a second evening of pleasure. That man, in addition to enjoying your embraces for one more night, would receive a cash prize of $2000. He would also win something bigger: the satisfaction of knowing he was the best of the three lovers, the one you preferred most. Each man moved closer, eying you with lust and a desire to prove himself. While the basketball player gave you a deep lingering kiss, the writer of sexual manuals swept his hands over your breasts; and the engineering CEO put kisses down your back, looking for points of surrender.

Now was the time. The men, though polite and waiting for you to express some preference, were inching toward sex. Now must you decide which fantasy needed fulfillment. You need to tell them whether you want to make love simultaneously or one at a time, whether you want all or none of them, whether you want it fast or slow, rough or gentle, top or bottom, whether you wish to be pleasured or do the pleasuring, whether you want to taste or be tasted. Now was the time where you could say anything, and it would be done; it would have to be done without complaint, or else the man given the request would immediately be sent home. Or you could say nothing at all, forcing them to guess blindly at your pleasures. Or you could undress before them and just tease them, forbidding them to touch you, keeping them so close that you could hear their heavy breathing and frustrated sighs. Before beginning, your hand feels something along the side of the bed. It is a small on-off switch. At first, its purpose is unclear, but then you notice a whirring sound from several points around the room. You look closer and realize that the on-off switch controls three miniature videocameras located strategically around the room.

In a flash you understand. Several thousand miles away in Texas, images from these cameras spill onto a wall cluttered with videofeeds of various couples indulging their passions. In this Texas room on a bed sits a man who has paid for your evening. Now with a click of a button on the remote control, your videofeed covers the entire wall. That man, of course, is me; I am sitting here nude, letting my Indian wife (and ex-yoga instructor) teach me Hindi and demonstrate the Kirtibandha sex position while I catch up on email and keep a lecherous eye on you. I embrace Manjiri warmly and smile, wondering which man will be your choice for an extra night of pleasuring.

Call me … curious.

The original ebook used for this audio book is under the Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike License; this story comes from the 99 Erotic Notions fiction project by Hapax Legomenon, you can find it on the original website of this author:

http://www.ripemangotaketwo.com/

This work is based on 99 Erotic Notions by Hapax Legomenon, whose website is located at the above web address.

Luce appeared at the doorway, looking like an angel.

The room was completely dark, so he could only see her outline. But as Luce came closer, he saw she was dressed in a skimpy negligee and a small pair of artificial wings which hung behind her shoulders.

"Do you like angels?" she asked.

"Sure," Steve said.

"Angels have made love to certain been known to make love to ordinary men, but only for the most deserving."

"Thank you for this honor," Steve said.

"You're welcome," Luce said, laughing, briefly breaking out of character. Then she became serious. "When angels visit, you cannot touch them. You can enjoy their physical presence, but if you touch them, they fly away."

"I see."

"But....you can still feel their bodies." Steve sat on the bed in his underwear, and she lay centimeters next to him, stroking the hairs on his leg. Luce bent over and kissed him, hovering over him without a single part of their bodies touching. An instant later, her lips met his; bodies and pleasures intertwined.

"Do you want to spend the evening with your angel?"

"Yes."

"You must ask me politely."

"Would you like to spend the evening with me?"

"Yes. Of course. Angels are kind and generous and totally devoted to love." In the dark Steve could see Luce smiling. This was amusing her greatly.

The music ended, and Luce went to her laptop. "Would you like to hear Beethoven?"

"Anything is fine," Steve said. Luce made some selections, and as she lay next to him again, a piano sonata began playing.

"Angels love music," Luce said. "It touches the deepest parts of their souls."

He bent over and kissed her, but she immediately caught him. "You can't do that," she rebuked. "Let an angel offer you a world of caresses, but the moment you make a single groping gesture, she has to leave."

"Sorry," he said with slight mockery. "I didn't know the rules."

A cell phone rang. Annoyed, Luce got off the bed and hunted for the phone in her purse. "It's Sharon," she said and turned the ringer off without answering it. "Interruptions must not happen when an angel is alone with her lover."

"Wait, he said, "can you hand me my cell phone? I don't remember if I turned mine off."

Luce handed him a second cell phone and he pushed a few buttons. "Okay," he said.

"Where were we?" Luce said.

"You were explaining the rules."

"Really there are no rules....except that angels can never be touched. But angels are intimately familiar with sensual pleasures, and enjoy it as much as any man. When an angel falls in love with a man, she will do anything to please him."

"And have you taken a fancy for me?" Steve said.

She bent down and let her chin touch Steve's face. Then she gave him a light kiss. "Yes," she whispered. "There are pleasures you have wanted and I can give. Am I right?" He could feel her small breasts underneath the negligee as she held him.

"Sure," he said.

"When an angel and a man are alone," Luce said, "any kind of sexual contact is possible...as long as the man never initiates. It is complicated, but men and angels have managed to have many passionate romances over the centuries." Luce rested her chin over his shoulder. "That is every angel's fear: an overeager man whose grasping forces her to leave."

"It is a small sacrifice to make," he said, leaning back and watching Luce kiss his stomach. "Will you... take off your clothes?"

"Of course," she said and quickly slipped out of her negligee, leaving on the strap with her small decorated wings. The wings were a sight to behold; as she bent over him, seeking the comfort of his embrace, he noticed their delicate patterns, specks of red with a glittery gold, a series of overlapping half-moons. They had brushed against his arm briefly and felt like silk; they looked as delicate as a butterfly's wings. He longed to touch them....

"Your wings – can I touch them?"

"You mean, feel them, not touch them." she said, smiling. She lowered her shoulder and brushed the wings against his arm. He knew it was ordinary fabric, but the way it brushed so lightly against his skin reminded me of her delicate feminine world.

"Can I feel your breasts?"

"Of course," she said, leaning over his chest. "Give me your hand."

She took his arm and wrapped her body around it. He could feel the soft curves of her skin.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes."

"Is there any part of me which your hand would like to feel?"

"Obviously."

"All you have to do is ask," she said.

"Your pussy. My hand would like to feel your pussy."

"No problem," she said, bringing his hand over her panties and pressing it against her. She closed her eyes and smiled as she opened it again.

"I want so badly to make love to you," he said. "It is driving me crazy!"

"It is still possible to make love....as long as we are careful...as long as you accept the limitations....as long as you don't make an accidental move."

"Oh, sure...." he said. "You talk as though you have a lot of experience. Have you played this game before?"

Luce smiled. "Angels play this game for an eternity. If not, they live a life of loneliness." "Here," she said, taking his hand and moving it to the lower part of her body. "Do you want to feel inside me too?"

"Yes," he said, and she pressed one of his fingers inside her little fold. He could feel her most sensitive parts against his finger. Then, before he realized what was happening, she giggled unexpectedly and said, "I didn't realize how excited I was."

"Or how excited I am."

"Don’t worry. Your turn will come soon enough." She bent over and gave him a small kiss.

"Is this the part where I ask for a blowjob and you say yes?"

"Maybe," she whispered, brushing her fingers down his legs. Without saying a word, she took his penis out of his underwear, cupping it in her hands and stroking it lightly. He tensed and sighed. She was playing with him, and he was growing weary of this angel game. He wanted just to fuck her, but was willing (for one night maybe) to play by her rules.

She started kissing down his chest. It relaxed him and made him want to bring her closer. But before he tried, she took his arm and placed it beneath his head. "It is better to keep your arms away so you don't make any accidental gestures."

"Wait a minute," he said laughing. "If you don't let me touch you, your body will never experience massive explosions of sexual pleasure."

"No, you don't understand," she whined. "Pleasure is not something you can steal from a person. Pleasures are given, not taken. Even female pleasures are aggressive for patient men. What kind of pleasures do you want to try tonight?" she asked.

"Well, you know." he said. "Oral sex. I'd like to go down on you."

"That is possible," she said smiling. "You don't have to be embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed!"

"Yes, you are," she said. "Angels want these things too, only it's ... more complicated. Let me show you." Luce straddled him and slowly moved her hips towards his head. "Now stick out your tongue."

Steven stuck out his tongue (feeling like a goofy child). Luce advanced towards him and lowered herself down. He could smell her pussy on all sides, and he gladly kept his tongue in place while her hip jiggled around. "That's good. You see?"

"Well, yes," he said, disengaging himself. "Do you want me to lick here? Do your rules allow it?"

"Sure. As long as your tongue stays close to where you first made contact, you can move your tongue all you want. After all, your tongue has to move, no matter where it happens to be. The rules for angels are very reasonable....and they can be....." she shivered lightly as his tongue found another sensitive spot..."very relaxing." She looked down at him, smiling, lost in a daze, ready for any kind of pleasure.

"I'm getting excited," Stephen said. "Let's do it now or I'll go crazy."

"Okay, but don't use your hands," she whispered and settled back, lowering her pussy over his cock. As they got used to the sensation of being so close, he looked into her eyes and saw a girl eager to make him happy. Their needs were equal; she wanted to feel him deep inside of her; he wanted her to go faster. "Oh!" she said, wincing in surprise and giggling.

"Did you like that?" he said.

She laughed again.

"Wait," he said.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Nothing... It's just hard to keep you in position if I can't use my hands."

"Oh, right," she said. She changed position and sat on his lap, grabbing his arms and wrapping them firmly at her hips. "Remember, your hands cannot move one centimeter unless I move them for you."

"Whatever," he said, wishing she'd stop talking and keep fucking.

His hands remained on her hips as Luce lowered onto him and started rocking. She seemed to be searching for a rhythm; when she found it, she sighed and laughed, tossing back her head. She was so absorbed in the intricacies of sensation that she had almost forgotten about him. She breathed harder; her hair bounced up and down as she rode his penis, lost in self-caresses. Moments later, Luce bent over to kiss his face, excited and anxious for more passion. Savoring the moment, he embraced her, stroking her hair.

Everything stopped.

She immediately removed herself from him. Then she started to remove her wings and put them inside her bag.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She gazed sadly at him, almost afraid to talk.

"Wait – are you leaving?"

"You touched me...you said that you wouldn't."

"Come on," he said, laughing, "I've been playing the game like a good boy all night."

"You don't understand," she said. "The moment you touch me is the moment I have to leave. And we were so close."

"You're joking."

"No," she said. "Our love has failed tonight. The angel must do all the touching."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"And I'm sorry you do not understand," Luce said, now completely dressed.

"It was an accident," Steve said.

"I know," she said. "Maybe I should have explained more."

"Well, can we try again some other time?"

"Of course," Luce said. "Next time will be better."

"Are we still having breakfast tomorrow at Jim's?"

"You can assume that," Luce said before leaving.

"10:00?"

"Your angel will be there," Luce said, closing the door behind her. Seconds later, she poked her head in again. "Don’t forget: I want pancakes and bacon."

Steve and Luce had been sleeping together for only 2 weeks; it was good but slightly disappointing. Their first evening had been a special experience, but they were both incompetent at giving pleasures. They tried again, with better results.

Then, to mix things, she appeared at his door in a negligee and angel's outfit. The game had been fun but exasperating. He hadn't expected her to leave like that. But the next time was okay. He couldn't call it a master-slave relationship; she wasn't trying to enslave him, and he wasn't just being obedient. He loved her. This was a just a sweet and innocent game (even if it seemed strange). It was almost as if she were afraid of being alone with an aggressive male. When he surrendered his freedom of touch, she gave him everything: attention, secret kisses and all sorts of physical pleasures.

Another evening, they lay quietly on the bed, contemplating their happiness.

"You are amazing," he said.

"Steve. I hope love means more to you than a few orgasms."

"Of course," Steve said. "I'm a lucky man to be with you."

He tried kissing her, but she pushed back playfully. "No, no, no."

At first, he wanted to pursue it, but didn't want to spoil the moment. He wasn't mad, just frustrated.

"You've already given your virginity to me," he said. "Why are you so stubborn about not letting me touch you?!"

She laughed and put her finger gently around his penis. "Be patient."

"I have been," he said sternly.

"Are you disappointed with my caresses?"

"I didn't say that," he said. "I just wish both of us could play by the same rules."

She took his hand and held it to her chest. "Please don't condemn this game. Regard it as a kind of test."

"I shouldn't have to pass any test for you," he said.

"Of course not," Luce agreed. "But it can show how to adapt your desires to the other's needs; that brings better understanding about the nature of love."

"That's ridiculous – don't you think I understand you well enough? "

She took his hand and kissed it. "That requires time. We shouldn't rush."

"Fine," he said. "Let's dawdle. I don't mind dawdling. I could dawdle for an eternity with a beautiful woman like you."

"I am not a woman. I'm an – "

"An angel. Yes, I keep forgetting."

"Thank you for understanding," she said. "The rules will help us in the long run."

He laughed. "That's feminism." But in fact he had no complaint. This game was fun and pleasurable. When a woman gave long luxurious blow jobs on request, he knew better than to freak out about a few eccentricities.

Luce kissed him. "Feminists annoy you, don't they?"

"Not if they are as fucking beautiful as you are," he said.

She broke up with him in September three months later.

It was his fault, totally his fault. He had cheated on her. It was dumb of him.

"What I can't understand," said a male friend, "is why you would cheat on Luce. Isn't she like perfect?"

"I know," he said. "It was a stupid fucking mistake."

Because he and Luce had the same circle of friends at school, when the news of the breakup came, most people took sides (against him). He was treated like a social leper. For months after it happened, he hated Luce; he thought she was trying to humiliate him publicly in front of his friends. Later he realized that he was just imagining things; Luce had just ignored him and moved on to other boyfriends.

It wasn't the sexual infidelity itself that horrified her, but the fact he had even been tempted by another desire less beautiful and profound. Their love had been perfect – even he admitted that; there was lust and orgasms and thrills; how could he have found that inadequate? She had given her entire self to him. His cheating meant that he never took love seriously and never appreciated her devotion. She did not understand that sexual desire caused people to do stupid and risky things. If she acknowledged that love and sexual desire were not always the same, she would have to discard her romantic notions about life. And that was scary.

He had tried to explain to his friends the circumstances of his infidelity, but even his best friends were unsympathetic. Yes, he had loved Luce, but he didn't really know what love was. 80% of it was his fault, but 20% could be attributed to circumstances. During that summer, Luce went to Bologna to stay with her uncle, while he stayed at his parents' house in St. Louis. He found a restaurant job where (as luck would have it) he met a girl from high school. Not just any girl, but Rosalie Morales, the talented actress who had won an acting scholarship. She was two years ahead of him, and they had been on the same cast for their high school production of Grease. She played the lead character Sandy Dumbrowski, while he was a Kenickie gang member who had only five or six lines. It was funny; even though the production was three years ago and he had only a minor role, Rosalie could still quote most of his lines. Amazing. She was so cute and talented; she still was. During high school, he had a crush on her and hung around her after rehearsals. But she treated him like a juvenile, which in fact he was.

Most of the restaurant workers were older or went to different high schools; Steve was the only familiar face to Rosalie. During work she made no secret about how she despised this job; she danced gleefully through the restaurant, making funny faces, singing random lines from Grease, imitating customers behind their backs. The two of them spent slow days swapping college stories and reminiscing about high school. Finally, he asked her out. Originally he had suggested a movie, but they ended up going to a play which her friend had free tickets for. The play was a bore (it was a series of ironic monologues about the myth of Michael Jackson); Rosalie's eyes rolled in mockery several times; clearly she shared his opinion. Afterwards, the friend who obtained the free tickets invited them to the cast party across the street. Five minutes after arriving, Steve felt out of place, but Rosalie seemed perfectly at home, chatting about acting classes and making polite remarks about the play to the director. Rosalie had this natural ability to charm people; she began singing some famous Broadway melody, and after a while two cast members joined in, as though this were some magical Broadway play.

It was easy to kiss Rosalie at the end of the night. She was very affectionate. On later dates, they went to all kinds of crazy places around St. Louis, a city he had always thought boring. They went dancing in Grand Center several times (something he never did). But Rosalie was a natural. He knew she was just performing in front of others and loved being the center of attention. But it was gratifying to know that the hottest girl in the club was with him. It wasn't love, but simply lust and excitement. Outside of the club, he kissed her several times, a little more intensely each time. In the car, he groped all over her. They were like noisy animals. Finally, after he made her sigh and laugh, she held him back for a moment to catch her breath. Then, in an exaggerated Southern accent, she said, "Well I do declare! It is getting hot in here! I could use a tall glass of lemonade!"

The next time they saw each other, she invited him to his house. Her parents were out of town for the weekend and he was ready to take full advantage of that opportunity. Twenty minutes later, he was in her bedroom, removing clothes, taking out condoms, putting it in and feeling her squirm. Even though it didn't last long, all the time he thought, I can't believe I'm doing with it Rosalie Morales ... Sandy Dumbrowksi, god, it was like fucking a porn star. After he came, they told a few jokes, ordered a pizza and went in the living room to watch TV. Two hours later, they did it again, but it was getting late, and he had to leave. He drove him thinking, I can't believe I got a chance to fuck Sandy Dumbrowksi! He remembered how she looked with her eyes closed, twisting her shoulders and holding his head while he licked around her clitoris. Her orgasms were a series of melodramatic sighs, followed by helpless laughter.

The next few times at work, she acted coolly towards him. Affectionate, but leaving no sign they were romantic. He was dying to tell somebody (and to brag), so he told his best friend Tom who didn't believe him. Once Tom stopped by the restaurant, so Steve introduced him to Rosalie. "Tom doesn't actually believe I'm your boyfriend." he said to her.

"Don't put words into my mouth," Tom said.

"Steve's a good guy," Rosalie said.

"And boyfriend," he added helpfully.

"Well," she said, pretending to think about it. "It depends on what you mean by boyfriend."

"Ouch!" Tom said. "That has to hurt."

"No, I didn't mean that," she said, laughing. "Steven is a good boyfriend. And yesterday Carlos was my boyfriend. And tomorrow it will be Mark and the day after tomorrow it may be Tom."

"Whatever," Tom said, whirling his finger in the air to indicate her craziness. After his friend left, Rosalie snapped, "Steven you are such a wiener. What we do in private is nobody's business."

"But I thought –"

"I told you about Danny at Carnegie-Mellon. You can't seriously expect me to give him up just because of a summer fling."

"A summer fling?"

"And you have that Italian girlfriend, what's her name?"

"Luce."

"You and me; we were just having fun. Deep in your heart, you know that. This ain't love." Then she started singing, "Summer dreams ripped at the seams, But oh, those summer nights..."

After that, Rosalie hung around him less often; she even seemed to make a point to talk to other men. She wasn't really trying to make him jealous; she just wanted to demonstrate the point that they were not an exclusive couple. She didn't want to mislead him.

They went out once or twice more, but it wasn't like before. He kept recalling her phrase "just because of a summer fling." His heart went back to Luce. He had not forgotten about her... just put her out of his mind. She had been writing semi-regular emails. She and her uncle had been travelling around Eastern Europe and so she was always on the run, mentioning random details... mountains he had never heard of, food he had never tried. He wasn't much of an email writer, but when he wrote, he avoided saying too much about his summer. It is best to explain certain things in person. He looked forward to seeing Luce again ... none of those mind games, just a good sweet girl with traditional views about romance.

It was a warm reunion at school. Steve listened quietly while Luce showed him photos from her Europe trip. He couldn't concentrate; he couldn't get his hands off her. No sex games, just a simple fuck which lasted no more than 20 minutes. Luce was the same, just as sweet and passionate. Looking back, he realized that he never should have told Luce about the summer fling (even though he felt obligated to do so). When he started talking, Luce looked shocked. She began crying. He had never meant to hurt her...just to come clean with her.

"And you had the nerve to sleep with me again as though nothing were wrong!"

"I'm sorry," he said. He tried to explain, but she wouldn't let him finish. She was disgusted. She didn't even want to hear his apologies. "What bothers me most is that you let me go through the summer believing nothing was wrong. Don't you think you owed that to me?" She laughed cynically. "It’s obvious that you never took our love seriously... To think, I had been in Bologna happily talking about you to my uncle when you had already abandoned me."

"I didn't abandon you. I just made a mistake ... a big mistake. "

"Am I supposed to look the other way?"

"I said I'm sorry. I said I wouldn't do it again."

"Oh, wonderful, "she said. "Now that you're sorry, everything is ok."

"I understand your anger. I did not appreciate the consequences of my actions. But now I do. If I could go back in time and erase that action from my life, believe me, I would. Just give me a second chance. Luce, you're my angel...."

"Don't say that," she snapped. "Please ... I don't know how to deal with this. I need time to think. I don't think I should see you anymore. I'm not even sure I could love you anymore."

"But –"

"You need to live with the consequences of your actions," she said and walked away. He called after her, but she continued walking. Later he tried several times to have a civilized conversation with her. But the wounds were too deep. When he tried to talk to her again, she would say politely (but firmly), "I just don't feel comfortable talking about it anymore," and walk away.

They had made love exactly seven times. Six times before the summer, and once on the night of the breakup (which didn't really count). In retrospect, their love had been perfect, if only he had realized it ...

The rest of the school year had been horrible. Yes, he graduated and found a job. Luce had moved on, but had he? All he had to remember her by was a single photograph. On the night the photograph was taken, she was wearing her angel's wings and lying beside him, saying silly things into his ear. Then, on a whim, she jumped out of bed, grabbed her camera and started taking random photos using the night mode. She took a photograph of his penis (with her hand over it), another of his face while she caressed his penis. The camera continued clicking through the night; while they were fucking and she was rocking back and forth, she snapped random photos of their bodies in motion. He begged her to let him take a few photographs of her. At first, she said no, but after some cajoling, she lay on the bed next to him while he started snapping away.

"Can I take a picture of you sucking my dick?" he asked.

He had expected her to say no, but she happily put her mouth on his penis, while he snapped multiple photos. Then they switched; she lay over his head and took a picture of his head between her legs, smiling up at her as he wiggled his tongue in front of her pussy. Laughing, she took more pictures. Afterwards, when passion was spent, she lay next to him and they reviewed the pictures through the camera's viewfinder. The photos were embarrassing and hilarious. Most were out of focus. Even the photos of her beautiful nude body looked slightly awful. In one photo, Luce had a contemplative frown; in another he made a frown that reminded Luce of her grandmother. When they came to the shots of Luce's reclining body, she groaned. "Oh, my god! I look awful!"

"Please," he said weakly, kissing her mouth. "You look gorgeous."

Silence.

"You kissed me," she said.

"So?"

"You kissed me! You broke the rules!" she laughed hysterically.

"Oh, that," he said, remembering the rules of angels. "I was paying you a complement. Doesn't that merit an exception?"

"You broke the rules!" she sang, "You broke the rules!" Luce started gathering her clothes and quickly dressed.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I won't do it again. By the way, did you want to go to the classical music concert tomorrow?"

"An angel never reveals her plans," she whispered and left the room.

The next day, a sealed envelope was slipped under his door. Inside was a single photograph, one of Luce's head taken from below. The photo was cropped so you saw only her shoulders, part of her wing and a sly smile. Along with the photograph was a handwritten note, saying, "An angel always loves you."

He still had the photo and the note. He still remembers that night.

A decade later, he was alone again after divorcing his wife of three years. He and Martha just argued too much; Martha couldn't tolerate disagreement; he was always in the wrong apparently. The more Martha scolded him, the more obvious their incompatibility seemed. The marriage started with a wonderful honeymoon in the Bahamas, and they played all kinds of sex games – even the angel game he played with Luce. But with Luce it had been a game of teasing. Martha used it as a way to exert control and even to punish him. Nothing was fun anymore. The love had already died early in the marriage, leaving a constant feeling of irritation.

He was glad to be free from marital stresses, but it was hard getting used to being alone again. His thoughts reached further back ... to Luce. That was a more innocent time. He still had the photograph; any stranger who looked at it might have thought it the work of an unremarkable and pretentious artist. But when he stared at the photo again, he remembered the night in question, the giggles, the sensual freedoms. Luce had been a treasure, and he had squandered it without appreciating his loss. He managed to forgive himself (he hoped that by now Luce had forgiven him too). They were young, and young people make mistakes. Painful mistakes.

Sex was no longer about woman or love. It was about porn and strip clubs and lonely people. Love was too enormous to think about.

At the time he knew Luce, he just wanted orgasms and fun, but as he replayed those six nights in his mind, he realized it was as close to love as he would get. Luce had been his angel of love.

Sometimes she visited him in the darkness, standing at the door again, dressed in that same angel outfit.

"It's good to see you again," he said.

"Is it really ... good?" she replied. Her voice had no joy or eagerness. She looked older and wiser; her body had matured; it was no longer the body of a girl who played volleyball or visited discos on Saturdays. But it was just as radiant, just as seductive.

"Still, I appreciate it," he said. "You are welcome here."

"You always say that."

"Let's not be angry," he said. "I've always loved you. A part of you must still love me too."

"An angel's love never dies; it only withers away," Luce said.

What's the best way to love an angel?" he asked.

"There is no best way," she whispered. "All human love is imperfect and selfish."

"But if you are an angel," he said. "how can you know what humans feel?"

"Angels know many things..." she said.

"If you do not abandon me, I can show you what human love is capable of."

"I have never abandoned you," Luce said. Her voice had an air of casual contempt. She removed her negligee and stood naked before him. "Do you have an erection?"

“Not yet," he said. "Come. Be with me. Put on some music. I've been waiting a long time for you."

"No music tonight," she whispered.

She slipped into his bed and curled her body around his, moving her fingers over his stomach. She did not look at him, but just rested her head against his shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment. He smiled, but she looked away and methodically began kissing his chest.

He felt totally passive before Luce. He could not initiate any touch – those were the rules; that seemed fine for a quirky college romance, but now that they were older, he longed for ordinary sex – no games. Letting another woman control the direction of his sexual passions seemed humiliating and almost perverse. Time was short, and they had already missed many opportunities for love. He wanted her to stay; he wanted to touch her, to assert his control over her and take her like any man took any woman. But he caught himself. Luce seemed to be looking for an excuse to break it off; all she needed was a single inappropriate touch. But in fact, these encounters had been giving Luce satisfaction too. For every orgasm he experienced, she had experienced several. Her hiccups of pleasure were small and undramatic and not particularly joyful; when she came, she looked into his eyes and seemed to be crying. Moments later, she bent over and gave him a soulful kiss; it was as though they had achieved a tearful reconciliation.

She relaxed, and he could feel his penis slip out of her pussy again. The feathers of her wings brushed lightly against his shoulders as she bent down to kiss his cheek. He had not come yet, but that was okay; they were sharing a gentle rhythm and heading inexorably towards release; she looked into his eyes and moaned; it was the sound of innocence and joy and forgiveness. It was the Luce of his memories, the Luce of his dreams. Then – he didn't know why he did it – he held the back of her head and stroked her hair – it was only a second or two, but he immediately jerked his arm back. In that moment her body froze and her face contorted – as though a lightning bolt had electrocuted her heart.

– scurrying from the bed ...

–grabbing himself and resuming the masturbation –

cameras clicking –

– rapidly dressing –

Stroke, stroke, release.

Alone on the bed, he saw himself: a lonely, desperate man.

"It was a mistake," he called out to the shadowy figure dressing at the other end of the room. "I never wanted you to leave. I didn't know your rules."

"The rules are things I cannot change," she said.

"There's no way I can obey them!"

"That's the problem," he heard her say before disappearing. In the darkness he could still feel the curves of her breast on his skin, the feathery wings against his arm, the shudders of a woman weeping.

Before he wished for her return, the naked man remembered Luce's gentle face, feeling only hatred.

The original ebook used for this audio book is under the Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike License; this story comes from the 99 Erotic Notions fiction project by Hapax Legomenon, you can find it on the original website of this author:

http://www.ripemangotaketwo.com/

This work is based on 99 Erotic Notions by Hapax Legomenon, whose website is located at the above web address.

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